


even odd out

by Amber (popslash_archivist)



Category: Popslash
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-06
Updated: 2017-01-05
Packaged: 2018-09-15 03:58:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 18,408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9217763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/popslash_archivist/pseuds/Amber





	1. Chapter 1

Justin ducked his head and stared at the floor. Mumbled a reply, his face a little flushed, hands in his pockets.

JC heard the tail end of Justin's answer and that alone was enough to make his heart sink. "How much?" he asked again, and thought that maybe he needed to sit down.

Justin glanced at him. "Forty thousand. We played for two days. I was winning for a while and I was sure---I mean, Kirkpatrick can't always win, can he? And--"

"Forty? Thousand?" He wasn't sure he could picture that much money. He got ten thousand a year, which had seemed like an enormous amount till he'd sat down and looked at the bills that came in each month. Well, technically he hadn't ever seen them. But his solicitor had, and he used words like "stretch" and "economize" and said things like "Sir, if I may suggest," and JC knew enough to realize that ten thousand a year wasn't really very much at all, even if everyone pretended it was.

And Justin had lost forty.

"I offered him my sister," Justin said. "Thought that might settle everything."

JC sat down. "You what?"

Justin pursed his lips. "In marriage. What do you take me for?" When JC didn't say anything, he sighed. "Fine. He turned me down anyway. Even when I didn't offer marriage."

"I need something to drink."

"You and me both." Justin said. Neither of them moved.

"What if you didn't pay? Maybe--"

Justin walked over to the window, pushed the drapes aside. The day was gray and damp and rainy. JC could see water beading and running down the glass from where he was sitting.

"Not pay? You're joking. That would ruin me. I can just see it now. Blind item in the papers. T--------, disgraced, can't settle debts. I wouldn't be able to walk down the street, would have to go live in the country, molder away. I can't do it. I'll think of something." He leaned against the glass. "You owe me--"

"Twenty." JC didn't like faro. Or E.O. Or anything else. He always lost. He played because he had to, because he was expected to. Because it was what people like him did.

Justin let the drapes fall closed. "Thirty nine thousand, nine hundred and eighty left to pull together then." He laughed, a smothered watery sound. "God! Wish he'd taken my sister. She wouldn't have minded."

JC looked very carefully at the drapes. He was sure Justin's sister would have minded. She was a lot like Justin.

"It's a mess," Justin said. "What's the world coming to anyway, when everyone refuses to play by the rules? No one else would have demanded payment right away. You'd think my word would have been enough." He shrugged. "Come back later today. I'll have it all sorted out then."

"Justin--"

"Later today," Justin said. "I'll sort it out. Somehow...wait." He shot JC a glance. "You could go talk to him. You know where he lives, don't you? Hard to miss that monstrosity of a house. Go offer him my sister again. Tell him I turned you down when you asked for her. Said you weren't good enough for her. He might like that."

JC bit the inside of his cheek as hard as he could.

"Go on," Justin said. And then added, "Jace--I--please," looked almost scared, and JC knew he'd say, "Fine. I'll go."

And he did. He brushed his suddenly sweating hands against his legs and said the words.

He thought that maybe he'd heard Justin whisper, "thank you," as he left. But it was probably wishful thinking on his part. The 'please' probably was too.

**

Justin had come into his inheritance two months ago and since then JC had spent more nights that he could remember watching Justin play cards, a cluster of friends and hangers-on around them; JC playing just enough so that no one ever questioned him for not playing more.

He knew who Chris Kirkpatrick was. He was hard to miss. Chris always won, always, and that was the extent of who he was. Other than that he was a nobody -- no name, no title, nothing. Just someone who'd arrived in the city a few years ago --JC had heard the stories-- talked his way into a gaming hell, and proceeded to win every time and every game he played. He'd won so much that he became the subject of gossip, a name JC heard whispered at parties and balls, girls' eyes rounding in fear and wonder, men muttering and cursing. He knew Justin had seen Chris as a challenge, had been sure he would beat him, had been positive that who he was mattered more than Chris's luck or anything else. Justin had been wrong.

JC had played cards with Chris once, only once, and he'd known he was going to lose the second he'd seen Chris holding his cards, the relaxed weight of his hands, the glint in his eyes. Chris was good at taking chances, he could tell, and JC wasn't.

Chris had watched JC the entire hand, a slight smile on his face, but didn't say anything other than "another," and "bet?" Still, JC had become so flustered that he'd forgotten all the rules and even how many cards he held. He left as soon as he'd lost, retreating with a made-up excuse of some engagement or other, Justin waving his hand in farewell, not listening, concentrating on the cards in his own hand.

He'd pushed his way through the press of all the bodies standing around the table, made his way to the door. Stopped only when someone said "Chasez," intently, mangling the pronunciation, and turned to see Chris looking at him.

"JC," he said without thinking, forgetting who he was for a moment, and Chris stared at him, his eyes gone intent and narrowed. Put a hand on his arm, lightly, just a brush of fingertips over fabric, said, "JC," and smiled.

JC looked at that smile, and responded with one of his own. Then he thought of the pile of notes he had pushed over to Chris as he'd lost, they way they'd sat there, resting under one of Chris's hands, and fled without a backwards glance.

Chris had called on him the next day, sent his card up, and JC had stared at it in fascinated terror before saying "No, no, I'm not at home." Chris hadn't called on him again.

**

The house really was a monstrosity. JC had passed it once or twice, laughed along with everyone else when it was mentioned. Laughed at the sheer size of it, the overly ornate design, the unnecessary details loaded up into and onto every inch of available space. It was hideous and huge, sprawled out over almost an entire city block.

It wasn't something one could miss.

There was someone to open the door, someone to blink when he said his name and bring him inside, take his coat and cast wondering glances at him. He ignored them and the person casting them, and waited. After a while, longer than he should have had to wait -- a lot longer -- someone else came out, had a muted conversation with the person watching him, and then came over and said, "this way. Sir."

Down a hallway, into a room. There was gilt everywhere, on everything, even the walls. JC wondered if maybe it was all done on purpose, so much wealth that you couldn't look at it without wondering about the person who'd amassed all of it, so much of everything that you couldn't look away.

Chris was sitting behind a desk, thumbing through a stack of papers. He didn't look up when JC came into the room.

"Chasez," the person who brought him into the room said. The pronunciation was all wrong, the ch too harsh, the rest of it rushed and dropped. It was a common mistake. Chris looked up then, cast a quick look at JC, and nodded. Said, "I know. But thank you," and the person left, closing the door behind him.

Silence. JC waited, and then frowned. He hadn't really expected courtesy, but still. "Kirkpatrick."

"Chris," Kirkpatrick said, and put the papers down on the desk, looked up at him. "No title, you know. It's just a last name." And then he smiled. "Not like you. Chasez." He got the pronunciation right that time, but his tone was mocking. "I guess you're here because of Timberlake."

"I am."

"And? He can't bear to come here and pay me himself?"

"No," JC said. "Of course that's not it, and it doesn't do you any credit to say that."

Chris laughed. "Oh, right. _Of course._ Not very honorable of me, and so forth." His voice was higher than JC thought it should be, deceptively soft. It didn't sound dangerous, didn't sound anything like a voice that could somehow manage to talk someone into another hand and another and one more past that, till there wasn't anything left to take should. "So let me guess. He wants to offer me something. What is it today? Last night it was his sister."

"That's nothing to laugh at," JC said stiffly. "He's willing to let you marry into his family."

"Is he?" Chris leaned forward, thoughtful looking, but didn't say anything else. Just looked at JC, his dark eyes glinting. It was odd, JC thought, to have someone just like all the people he passed everyday and never noticed staring at him like they were waiting for something from him. He felt his face heat.

"Yes."

"And what are you offering?" Chris said and glanced down at his fingernails as if they were infinitely more interesting than their conversation.

JC took a careful deep breath and bit back all the angry words that he knew he'd never say. "I told you, it's Timberlake's sister. Marry her and--you'd matter. To everyone. Everywhere. He----he wouldn't even accept my offer."

"Really?" Chris said. "He turned you down? Let me guess, you weren't good enough. But it seems I'm good enough. How flattering."

JC looked at him. Chris wasn't looking at his fingernails anymore. He was looking at JC, his head tilted a little to the side, the fingers of one hand carefully turning a small card over and over through his fingers. It took him a moment to realize what it was. A calling card.

"Oh," he said. "I--when you called--I wasn't--at home."

Chris dropped the card and stood up. "I'm sure you weren't," he said, politely and pointedly, and walked over towards JC.

"So," he said. "again. And what are you offering?" Looked at him, his eyes hooded and carefully watching. Stood close to him, but didn't touch him, just watched.

JC swallowed, cast a quick glance at the card lying on the desk, felt a warring rise of shame and heat curl through him. Thought of Chris's fingers wrapped around cards, resting lightly on his arm. "I--" He cleared his throat. "for the debt markers. I could--would--" Reached out a hand and thought better of it, curled it back down, rested it against his side.

Chris smiled, predatory and bright.

"Upstairs," was all he said.

**

The house was a blur. A warm, well-heated, ornate blur of hallways and floors and people carefully not looking at him or Chris. A long flight of stairs, another hallway, Chris walking in front him, looking straight ahead and never back, and then a bedroom. It was just like the rest of the house. Huge and gilded and warm. JC caught himself wondering how much it cost, to heat a house like this. He always had to keep rooms--entire wings even, blocked off. He wondered how much money Chris had. He looked at the bed and then looked away just as quickly, caught Chris's smirk out of the corner of his eye.

Chris sat down in a chair and JC waited for Chris to say something--offer to fetch someone to help with his boots maybe, offer him a drink. Something. Anything. JC was used to people asking after him. Helping.

Chris didn't say anything and JC took his boots off, not sure what else to do. Chris was still sitting there, just watching him, and JC felt flustered and stupid. He was sweating by the time he got his boots off, and he wished the room wasn't so warm. The tip of one of his boots was scuffed. He looked at it for along time, until Chris cleared his throat. Waiting.

Fine, he thought. And started working on his shirt. He'd never actually untied the complicated twisting of cloth around his neck before, usually left it to someone else. The folds of the fabric confused his fingers, made them slower and clumsier than usual. He closed his eyes, felt around the knot with his index fingers and thumbs, pulling at it untill it came free.

Chris was smiling when JC opened his eyes again. But he still didn't offer to help.

The rest of the shirt was easy. Buttons, and they slipped free of their holes easily. He thought, after his shirt was off and on the floor, that maybe he should have spent more time on it. Because now he was left with just his pants and Chris was still sitting there. Watching.

He fumbled with the first button, high up on his hip, catching it on the loop that held it in place. When it finally came free, he thought he heard Chris breathe. It was actually a relief, to hear him make a noise. Until then, he'd been totally silent. Just that smile, and nothing more.

The second button, and JC went as slowly as he dared. This was real, he was doing this, and Chris wasn't going to get up and tell him to stop and walk out of the room. He knew that.

Three buttons left to go, then two, then one, then none, and JC pushed the rest of his clothes down. He was naked in front of people all the time--he was usually dressed by servants, and never thought a thing of it. He wondered if Chris was doing it on purpose, watching, and letting JC remove every layer he wore. He swallowed and looked up.

Chris was leaning forward. But lazily, like he did when he played cards, a sort of careless slouch of disinterest. JC could almost hear the call for more cards, thought that if he closed his eyes he'd be on a table somewhere, a number stamped on his head.

He willed his fists to unclench, watched his fingers unbend from the fist they'd formed themselves into, smooth pale skin unfolded. He suddenly wanted to bite his knuckles, a nervous habit he'd left behind years ago with a nursemaid who used to rap his hands with the flat of her own every time she caught him, a tight smile on her face and a broader one in her eyes.

He looked at Chris's hands. They were curved on the edge of the chair, resting. But JC saw the white-edges of his knuckles, the way the fabric dented under the curves of Chris's fingers, and was able to breathe easier. Maybe Chris was nervous too.

Then Chris stood up, smooth movement of muscles, dark eyes flashing, and JC decided that Chris probably wasn't nervous at all.

**

Watching Chris walk towards him, JC couldn't look at his eyes. Chris had gambler's eyes--dark and guarded and there was nothing to read there, nothing at all, and JC needed something, anything. So he watched Chris's feet, the line of his calves, the way the muscles in his thighs moved, the way the material of his pants bunched around his knees and then released with each step he took.

"Breathe," Chris said, and his voice was sweet and high and mocking.

JC breathed, and Chris was right in front of him. His lungs hurt, and there were little spots of color dancing in front of his eyes.

Chris was shorter than he was, which should have made him feel better. Chris had to look up to see him. He told himself that, and still felt like he had to look up to meet Chris's eyes anyway.

Chris put a hand on his arm. JC watched his fingers, the short length of them, not nearly as elegant as his own hands, which had been called beautiful before, and thought that everyone probably had it wrong. Chris's hand slid down, closed around his wrist, and JC felt marked.

"Come on," Chris said, and JC followed him. To the bed, huge and shadowed and soft under his knees. He knelt there for a second, hesitating.

Then he realized that Chris hadn't pulled him, or guided him, or even tugged the slightest bit. He'd just touched him, light pressure on his wrist, and JC had followed him. Willingly. He looked to his side, to Chris, standing beside the bed, and saw that same knowledge in Chris's eyes.

**

JC had had two kinds of sex before.

Women. He paid for the pleasure of their time and company, paid with money and bracelets and rings and necklaces and carte blanche at the dressmakers, paid for women who smiled and touched him and said "Chasez" like it was a song, all liquid warmth and joy. Women who made polite conversation with him, read his eyes, and led him to bed. He thought of them only in relation to himself. How long until he could push her up against a wall or down into a bed? How long until he could slide his hand under her skirt? How long until it would be over and done and he would button his pants back up, smile down into her eyes, and leave?

Men. At school, for the most part, back when he was younger. At night, the scent of gin or wine filling the air, pressed into a narrow bed, quick hot breaths on the back of his neck, fumbling hands moving and then gone in seconds. More recently, when he was older, free of school and its petty tyrannies, leaning out of a hack, gesturing, catching the hollow-eyed bright glance of someone young and beautiful, all red lips and smile. Hearing possibilities and prices recited in a dead voice. Himself kneeling on the floor of a hired carriage, conscious of the driver mumbling above him, someone unknown touching him and then holding out a hand for payment, the whole thing accomplished in moments.

This... this was new. He was used to quick butterfly touches, women's nails on his back while they moaned his name like it meant something, quick grasps on his hip, a man's blunt nails digging into the area where his legs curved into his body, but not this. Not someone running slow hands up and down his sides, every finger, palms.

He could feel the bend of Chris's wrists against his skin.

His eyes were open, and Chris was leaning over him. Not smiling, his eyes half-closed, the lids of them angled as if he was asleep. JC saw the hot bright curve of his gaze underneath, and knew that Chris wasn't sleepy at all. Again Chris's hands moved down, curving from right under his armpits, gliding over his ribs, stopping at the tops of his hips and then moving back up.

JC's back arched up on the next pass, and he shifted into those hands. The pressure was a little firmer now, Chris pausing, smoothing over his ribs, and he felt the prickling of his skin, like he was cold. Chris's hands stopped at his hips, and his thumbs moved in a circle. JC felt it under his skin, inside, everywhere. Held his breath, and waited for the next sweep upwards. Wanted it.

"Breathe," he heard again, whispered, amused, and JC thought, he thinks this is funny. He inhaled anyway, and Chris's hands moved up, curving over his sides, and slid up to his shoulders.

JC had only thought about his shoulders in relationship to his coat before. He always had to have padding put in because his shoulders were bony, thin, not as wide as they should have been. But Chris's hands fit into them, on them, and he swept his thumb across JC's collarbone, and then down, across the top part of his chest.

With anyone else, JC thought, it all would have been over by now. He didn't think he'd been touched so much in his entire life, ever. He thought that maybe he should say something. He thought of Justin's forty thousand pounds, and Chris's smile in the study, his _"and what are you offering?"_ He thought of all of that, and forgot it as soon as Chris's hands moved back up to his shoulders. Thought about how Chris held cards, like he knew them, owned them, and felt himself shiver.

Chris moved his hands down, away from JC's shoulders, his sides, and rested them on his legs, curved his fingers under and around his knees, pressing against bone, and it was then that JC realized how naked he was. Lying there, shivering, skin moving towards Chris's touch--and there it was again, a touch, Chris's hand sweeping up his thigh, and Chris pressing against him, warm scratchy fabric scraping across his stomach.

Chris was still dressed.

"I--" he said, thinking of Chris's mocking _"Chasez,"_ when JC stood in front of him, and thought he should have been ashamed. But Chris's hands moved higher then, pressed between his legs, and JC forgot what he wanted to say.

Opened his eyes, because it seemed important somehow, a way to at least show that he hadn't given over everything, that he was still who he was and Chris was still nothing, a nobody who had luck on his side and nothing more. Opened his eyes, and saw Chris staring down at him, bright flush on his face, marching down his face along his cheekbones. Chris's eyes hot and bright and looking right at him.

He moved his hands up from where they lay open and stretched out to Chris's shirt, the fabric rough and warm under his hands, and heard Chris breathe, a harsh choking sound. He pushed one button free, then another, Chris's hands stilling, moving to let JC push the shirt off his shoulders, down his arms. It held on his wrists and Chris sat back, on his knees between JC's thighs, and tugged it down, off. Smiled at JC, bright, predatory, and came back, touched him again.

"Oh," JC said, because Chris had pressed his mouth to JC's skin, warm wet pressure on his shoulder, the sharp hot flash of teeth, and JC was glad there was nothing left of him but skin.

Chris's hips ground against his, and JC moved helplessly, trapped between the bed below him and Chris above him. There wasn't enough pressure, and every time Chris's hips moved he felt his own twist in response.

Chris's hand slid under one leg, pulled his thigh up, draped JC's leg up and over his back. His knee was hooked against Chris's skin and the pressure was suddenly more, better. JC thought, suddenly, of the women he'd been with, of their legs lifted up and around him, pressure always dulled by the layers of clothing between them, their nails sliding under and into his skin, and wondered if that was what it was like for them. He was sure it wasn't. Not this hot bright weight behind his eyes, running over his skin.

Not like this, Chris pushing against him again, the weight of his skin a hint held, a secret shrouded by fabric, a promise.

**

He was going to come and it scared him because he couldn't think about anything else. He liked sex how it had been before, confined strictly to feeling in one area, his mind free to meander around where he was going to be in ten minutes, an hour, what he was going to do about whatever problems were facing him. He didn't like it this way, unable to focus on anything other than the slow push of Chris against him, the fabric of Chris's pants scraping against his thighs, his whole body concentrating and narrowing down, his entire universe collapsing to the way everything inside him, on him, in him, hurt, burned.

Another movement, Chris sliding against him so hard that JC felt it everywhere, in his shoulders, in his teeth, arcing out of the top of his head, and he put his hands on Chris's hips, the first time, sweating across the fabric, wishing it was skin he felt, his teeth grinding together. He came and heard Chris whisper something, nonsense, and still words JC strained to hear as he shuddered and gripped and felt like he'd turned himself inside out and empty.

Chris kissed him. For the first time, JC realized only after his mouth was open, his tongue gliding against Chris's, the feel of Chris's teeth bumping against his. Chris's mouth was hot and wet and JC didn't feel tired or relaxed, nothing at all like he usually felt after he came. Chris kissed him and JC forgot the wet sticky patch on his stomach, the way he'd been scared only moments before, and lifted his other leg up, wrapped it around Chris's waist.

Chris kissed him until JC couldn't see anything behind his eyes but blackness lit with sparks, till his mouth felt open and raw and hungry, till Chris pulled away from him, his breath a short sharp pant against JC's ear, muttered words that JC stopped simply by turning his head and licking the seam where Chris's lips joined.

"Shit," Chris said, pulling away from his mouth again, and JC opened his eyes, watched the world come back into focus. Chris's mouth was tight, twisted, and his eyes were wild, glazed. "Shit," Chris said again, and pulled JC's hands down, helped them open buttons, separate fabric, and JC was touching skin, his fingers curving into Chris's hips.

There was movement again, Chris pulling away, and JC smoothed his hand up and over the curve of Chris's ass, the bend at the end where it dipped into his legs and then Chris was pushing him away, one hand clamped around JC's wrists, pushing them up and over. Bright hot pain in his shoulder sockets, but he forgot it as Chris breathed in his ear, pressed against him, his erection a sharp perfect weight against JC's own rapidly returning one.

"Too fast," Chris said, the words a warm weight in JC's ear. "Too fast," he said again, panted, and his fingers moved between their bodies, sliding over JC's skin.

"No," JC said, and pushed against the hand that held his wrists. It fell away, and he moved them down, knuckles over Chris' back, hands moving out and pressing into skin.

"Yes," Chris said, and moved his hand again. Reached out, away, and JC heard the sound of something opening or closing or breaking over the feel of Chris's back under his nails, which weren't as short as he thought they were, skin catching under them.

"Shit," Chris said, a final time, and then his hand was back, slick wet pressure gliding over JC's stomach briefly and then down, lower, lower still.

Inside, and JC had known it was possible, but hadn't thought about it. Even though his body was draped up and open, waiting, he hadn't realized what he wanted. Pressure, him gasping and hands clutching at skin, the quick flittering thought that countless times, with countless bodies, and he hadn't know anything at all.

"Yes," he said, answering.

And then Chris's mouth was on his and he couldn't say another word.

**

Afterwards, he watched Chris get up and walk across the room, long stalking strides, not relaxed at all. He couldn't keep his eyes open, but he tried. Nothing special, he decided, in the line of Chris's back. Nothing special, but the curve of it still made something inside him twist, break open.

Chris grabbed something, clothes maybe--JC didn't know, didn't care--and came back towards the bed. Nothing special, JC thought again, and still shuddered when Chris stood there, looking down at him, his eyes wild, his mouth a tight thin line on his face.

"Get up," Chris said, but his voice cracked, and JC's eyes slid closed.

"Get up," Chris said again, but his voice was closer, less angry, and JC felt the soft glide of a tongue against his ear, fingers resting in his hair. He let the warm darkness of sleep wash over him, thought he heard a soft "stay, then." Chris's hand was resting against his shoulder as he slid away. A loose hold, but JC still felt it and smiled.

**

When he woke up, he was alone. He got up, grabbed his clothes, which were in a heap on top of the bed, and got dressed. There wasn't anyone in the hall outside the room, or by the stairs, but there was someone downstairs. Dark hair, but not as dark as Chris's, and the eyes that met his were bland and empty, vacant. "There's a driver waiting."

He went to Justin's.

Justin was in his study, and his face was flushed and happy. He was holding a slip of paper in his hand.

"He sent back the markers," JC breathed. He ran a hand through his hair, felt phantom fingers lying next to his, tugging on the strands. He smiled.

"What?" Justin shook his head. "No. Paid 'em off just now. Cheeky bastard insisted on writing me a receipt."

"He--you paid?" He was sure he hadn't heard right.

"'Course," Justin said. "Had to."

"How did you--" JC took a deep breath. "How did you find the money?"

Justin's smiled faded a little. "Hargrove. The banker."

JC waited.

"He's marrying my sister," Justin said. "Ceremony's tomorrow. She's excited about it. Wants some new dresses." The knuckles on his right hand were bruised. "Forty thousand for her. Can you believe it?"

"No," JC said. But he did. Of course he did. She was Justin's sister, and her name held worth.

"You'll stand up at the ceremony, won't you? It'll be here, and small, but still. Expect there will be some talk and all, but it will die down. Hargrove said he'd take her out of the country for a honeymoon trip. Oh, and Kirkpatrick said to tell you to stay away from the tables. Said you were too easy to read. I didn't think you'd be able to talk him into anything, but still. I didn't know you owed him too. I guess everyone does. How much, if you don't mind me asking? He's a bastard about collecting, that's for sure. Counted all the money out right in front of me, like I couldn't be expected to pay--"

Justin kept talking, and JC looked out the window. After a moment he got up and closed the drapes, but even then he could still hear the faint drip of water against the glass. It was raining again.


	2. fold

It was a bad sign, he thought, that they had to wait outside, and hadn't even been invited in. JC stared at his hands while they waited because it was much easier than looking at Justin's face.

A servant finally came out to them, his face creased and expressionless. In his hands was a small silver tray, and on that tray was Justin's card neatly folded in half lengthwise, the side with his name printed on it angled downwards. It was rejection, a vicious, silent rebuke, and JC saw Justin's hands, still encased in gloves, flex a little, fingers pushing out before falling back into place by his sides. He remembered that he had sent his card up to Justin's sister once, a long time ago, right after he'd asked Justin for her hand. He'd folded the right hand corner up, a declaration of his feelings. His hopes. Her reply had been similar to the one Justin had just received.

"I see, " Justin said. "Tell my sister that I shall call again tomorrow."

The servant nodded once and then backed away, the door swinging closed soundlessly. The doorknocker was enormous, shining polished brass the size of JC's head, a dragon chasing its tail.

"She's as vulgar as he is," Justin said, and his voice was brittle. "If this continues, I will have to go to Hargrove's--" he paused and JC could practically see Justin searching for the right word to use, "establishment and talk to him."

They went back down the steps, passed the footman holding open the carriage door, and climbed inside. JC settled back into the seat and searched for something to say. Justin's temper had reached a furious peak over the past few days. It had evidently not occurred to him that his sister might be upset with him, and he'd taken her refusal to see him very hard.

"I'm sure she's fine," JC said, and then winced. "I mean--"

"Of course she is," Justin said sharply. He took off his gloves, and his fingers were white with cold, the tips of his nails a faint bluish color. He looked out of the window, and didn't move his gaze until the house faded from view. "We'll go tomorrow at one," he finally said. "And we'll send your card up instead of mine."

JC nodded, and tried to remember if he had any calling cards left. He didn't pay many calls by himself, for the simple and somewhat sad reason that he didn't have enough money to keep a carriage at his disposal. He wasn't sure what he would do when his own sister was finally ready for a season in the city. Borrow money from Justin, perhaps.

"Come out with me tonight," Justin said.

"I can't. I'm going to the Russell's."

Justin narrowed his eyes. "Again? Why? It can't be for the discussion. You don't know the first thing about politics. And god knows there isn't anyone interesting there. Ever."

"I like it." He didn't, not really, found the political talk dry and boring and incomprehensible--a blur of discussion that he could barely follow or stay awake through. But it was safe. Totally safe and they served rum punch, which he loved and never drank anywhere else because it wasn't the done thing, was a drink for those who were old and faded and sat quietly everywhere they went.

"I'm going to the crush at Kirby's," Justin said, "and you should come with me. They're hosting some foreign prince or something. Everyone will be there." He paused, and then smiled at JC, a sunny happy twist of his mouth. "Everyone that matters."

JC knew what that meant. "At ten?" he asked, and Justin nodded.

When the carriage stopped at JC's house, Justin put a hand on his arm. "You know he won't be there," he said quietly, and his voice was almost kind.

So Justin knew then, had guessed, or worse. The thought that-- "Ch--Kirkpatrick said something to you?"

Justin shook his head and JC knew that the truth had always lain in his own eyes. He was terrible at hiding things. He pulled away from Justin's hand and went inside.

He searched his study for cards, and found a pile of them in one of his desk drawers, their edges curling up and yellowing. His housekeeper, when he asked her, promised to take care of them for him. He kept one and sat on a chair in front of the fire, practicing folds and watching the flames flicker blue and red and orange, careful to keep his mind quiet.

**

It was practicality, really, that had kept him away from Justin's world. He'd sat through Justin's sister's wedding in a quiet daze, his mind stuttering over places he didn't want it to dwell. He'd never been good at keeping his thoughts as ordered as he wanted them to be. He'd hugged her after the ceremony, and her hands were a tense curved weight on his arms, her voice a brittle laugh in his ear as he wished her a happy life. When Justin, flushed and drunk and miserable, had suggested that they go out moments after she'd left, he'd agreed.

Justin had been tense and reckless, taking them to his club first, where he played dice and lost a magnificent sum of money very quickly. He'd regained it just as fast and JC had watched the numbers on the dice spin up to face him, the dots marking their wooden surfaces looking like patterns he couldn't quite read. His success had been too much or not enough for Justin, and he'd decided to go where JC both wanted to and dreaded going.

The hell they went to was almost but not quite respectable, a non-risky flirtation with seediness, the room full of their peers and those who earned their living by the willingness of others to bet their fortunes. The gaming tables were all full, their green felt surfaces shabby and dirty from real play, from the sweat of players as they gambled for stakes that were astronomically high.

JC had sensed Justin's intentions as soon as they walked through the door, could almost hear Justin's unspoken wish to prove that he could win, that he would win. He didn't need to look to see Justin glancing around for Chris, but he did anyway.

Chris hadn't even looked at them when they approached him, Justin in front, and JC trailing behind. Justin procured a seat and joined in immediately, and JC had stood behind him wondering why he didn't feel stupid and instead felt the keen edge of anticipation.

He waited and waited and nothing happened. Justin lost, but not a lot, cards and money falling through his hands like water, and Chris never once looked at him. He spoke to Justin, his tone cutting and bright, inclined his head at JC when Justin waved a hand towards him, but his eyes never reached JC's face. JC had waited, tense and wishing, until Justin had lost enough to make him maudlin, and then they left. He had looked back as they were walking out, and Chris was watching them.

It was then JC realized that he couldn't go back. He wanted Chris's eyes on him, wanted it with an intensity that frightened him, that he didn't understand. There was something inside him, something he couldn't see the beginning or endof, and it cared nothing for shame or pride, was reckless in a way that elated and terrified him.

It wasn't Justin knowing about Chris that bothered him. It was that he didn't care that Justin knew.

**

He didn't have much choice about what to wear to the Kirby's. He'd had someone pawn his black velvet and red two months ago to pay the household staff--something his solicitor had not been happy about, but JC was worried that a year was too long for anyone to go without wages. JC had finally assuaged him by pointing out that it was easier to pay salaries than it was to go to the expense of hiring a new staff and wondered if his father would have ever let the solicitor try to bully him. He doubted it, but had no idea what to do about the situation and also felt that perhaps the censure was warranted. His own father had often pointed out that he worried about details that were supposed to be beneath his notice. It was a failing. He had a lot of those.

So without the black or the red, he was left with blue or green. The blue was dusty and--"moths," he said, touching the sleeve with some regret. Moth damage was expensive to repair.

"Sir--"his valet said, stammered really, and JC shook his head.

"Never mind. Just get the green."

The green was in better condition but it was barely acceptable. JC had bought it six months ago, when the trend for ornamentation was minimal. There'd been a shift since then, with the proliferation of returning war heroes turning up at events loaded down with gold braid and shining medallions. Still--he fingered the cloth absently, his valet's face nervously peering up at him--still, he thought, it would do. It had to, didn't it?

The suit was made of good velvet, heavy and dense, soft slippery stuff that the tailor had exclaimed over and then charged extra for the difficulty of working with. And the cut wasn't bad. JC sighed as his valet buttoned the last button on his coat and laboriously moved the mirror standing in the corner, turning it so JC could see his reflection. It wasn't bad, but it was stark. The pants had no ornamentation, not even a stripe of ribbon up the side, and the coat's buttons were small and didn't glitter at all.

Justin made a face as soon as he saw him. "You should have told me you were going to wear *that.* I would have sent my man over to do something about your coat. Really, JC. It doesn't even have a bit of braid."

Justin was all in white--gleaming shining fabric that practically glowed, and both his coat and pants were heavily embroidered with gold thread. JC had no doubt that next week white would be all the rage.

"No one will notice," he said. "They'll all be too busy trying to figure out how to bribe your valet to get the name of your tailor."

Justin smiled at that. "They will, won't they?"

**

They took the long way to get to the Kirby's, joined the throng of carriages waiting their turn to roll down the street that was the unofficial beginning of the most elegant part of the city. JC pointed out that the next street over was the one that actually led to the Kirby's main entrance, and Justin rolled his eyes, said "But that's not really the point, is it?" and opened the window to nod a greeting to the carriage behind him. JC sighed and counted the number of seconds till the carriage rolled forward again. He lost count somewhere after one hundred and sixty-three.

The house was magnificently decorated--draped with bunting and guarded by a veritable army of freshly scrubbed lamp holders. It was almost as bright as daylight, and JC had to blink several times as he walked up the stairs.

Inside it was stifling--the Kirby's had opened up most of the first floor, sliding connecting doors open, turning the space into one large room, but it was still very crowded. It seemed everyone had shown for the event. JC stood in line behind Justin, avoided the braces of candles that had been shoved into every available space that wasn't filled with people, and tried to look past the receiving line. He couldn't see much other than the musicians, who were sweating and carefully not watching all the people dancing around them. He recognized most of the people that swirled by and relaxed a little. He did like to dance.

Kirby was dressed in black and gold lace, probably in an attempt to look elegant and forbidding. Unfortunately, he was short and stout, with the even regular features of a child, and nothing could disguise that. His wife was in blue, and she offered JC her greetings a beat later than was standard. A subtle reproof, JC thought, that was probably in response to his attire. He wasn't sure about that, but it was confirmed when he made his greetings to the Kirby's daughter who stood at the very end of the line, poised for every available suitor that might pass by, dressed in the pale pink of the unmarried, an enormous emerald pendant around her neck. "Ah," she said, "I see that Timberlake has not deigned to share his tailor's name with you, then."

He didn't expect much from the evening after that.

**

It wasn't bad, though. He stood with Justin and his friends--his friends too, he reminded himself--and danced with young women whose mothers watched with eagle eyes, their fans twitching when a partner was deemed acceptable and lowering when one was not. He was dancing the final pattern of a set with Kirby's daughter, who had unbent enough to smile at him several times, making him think that perhaps her earlier comment was more due to nerves than scorn, and a turn of the dance brought them together, her hand on his arm as they walked into their next position.

She was wearing an emerald bracelet, and he thought that it matched his jacket far better than her dress. He fingered the gold filigree that bound the emeralds and her arm moved under his, a gentle smile on her face. He opened his mouth to say something--a compliment perhaps--Kirby was a wealthy man, and his daughter wasn't unattractive--and then he saw Chris.

Chris was standing at the end of the room, with a group of men JC recognized as serious gamesters, men who spent more time dicing and playing cards than they did anything else. Kirby's daughter noticed where his gaze was.

"Papa invited him," she whispered. "He thought that if people didn't come to see the Prince, they'd come to see him."

"And they did," he said, and hoped his voice didn't sound as tight as he thought it did.

"Of course," she said and Chris turned, his gaze drifting across the floor. JC felt the impact of those eyes even before they skimmed across him.

"He smiled at me," she whispered. "How--oh my. Papa will be furious."

JC murmured something and went through the last turns of the dance. Afterwards he walked the Kirby's daughter to her next partner, made poor quality small talk about the weather--he saw the people he was talking with roll their eyes several times--and then went to find Justin.

Justin was holding court in one corner of the room, complaining because the promised Prince turned out to be merely a Duke -- "and from a country no one has ever heard of, no less!"-- and JC slid to the back of the group clustered around him. "I thought I saw Kirkpatrick," Justin said, and the smile he offered up to everyone was tinged with malice JC was pretty sure only he could see. "What is he doing here?"

"Kirby invited him. Said it would liven things up," someone replied.

Justin laughed. "Poor Kirby." And then, "You know he only did it because he couldn't go a night without playing."

"And where's your sister tonight?" someone asked, a mocking call, and Justin stiffened.

"I suspect she's with her husband," he said, and smoothed his hands down the arms of his jacket. "Since Kirkpatrick is here, there's probably a game set up already. Am I correct?" His eyes were bright and angry and JC knew that sometime within the next week he'd be carrying a challenge card for Justin. He pitied whoever had asked about Justin's sister.

Justin walked over to where Chris was standing and spoke to him briefly, careful to keep his gaze off to one side. JC watched everyone follow Justin's example, carefully looking past and through and around Chris, not saying a word to him, and for a moment JC had to admire Justin's utter inability to let anything go.

Chris was smiling, lazily, and offering greetings to everyone who passed even though no one made a reply. JC hoped that Justin wouldn't lose another fortune. He tried to focus on that, but was instead only able to think about the fact that each step brought him closer to Chris.

"Chasez," and Chris was right in front of him. Smiling, face bland and polite and bored, his gaze blank, but still JC couldn't help but remember the last time he'd seen Chris up close, Chris's eyes looking into his, and said,

"Ch--Kirkpatrick." He heard the slow mumble of voices behind him, knew that Justin was probably glaring. Chris's smile faltered, his mouth twisting into something real and fierce, and JC walked away blindly, wishing that the evening had stayed a boring failure and not become such a spectacular one.

**

Justin did glare at him, but also insisted that JC sit next to him, which JC supposed would be seen as a mark of favor. Of course, Chris was on his other side, Justin having called out, "Kirkpatrick, sit on the other side of Chasez, please."

Sitting there JC was reminded of what Justin had done after JC had asked to marry his sister. Justin had refused him and then made sure that JC sat next to her at the very next dinner he'd hosted, forced JC to walk her inside, her arm folded around his, knowing that everyone would talk and assume the match was a possibility, that JC was someone to be reckoned with.

That was Justin in a nutshell, JC thought. Kind and cruel at the exact same time, offering up something and never quite meaning it. He sighed and took the cards he was dealt. They were all terrible. Chris won the hand, of course, just like he always did, and JC turned his head to watch him.

Chris was looking at Kirby, a smile on his face. Kirby was sweating, the gold lace around his throat wilting and sliding down into his jacket. "Next hand, you could bet the medals on your jacket," Chris said, and shuffled the cards through his fingers. He held the pack out towards JC and then turned to look at him.

JC thought Chris's gaze was what he wanted, but now that it was on him he had to struggle not to flinch. He remembered Justin telling him that Chris thought he was too easy to read.

Chris blinked, and a flush crept across his cheekbones, cutting down the planes of his face. "Deal?"

JC took the deck, careful not to touch his hands to Chris's. He dealt the cards and lost again. Kirby lost as well, bet two of the medals he was wearing and had to watch them disappear. Justin yawned after the hand ended, tapping his fingers against the green felt of the table, cards face up in front of him.

"Let's raise the stakes," he said, and clapped JC on the shoulder. "Next hand starts at five hundred."

JC drew his hands off the table and put them on his knees, pressing down into bone. He should get up and leave. But he wouldn't, because if he did everyone would know he couldn't afford to play, and so he drew his hands up. The cards were being passed around.

He picked up his hand and looked at it, then fanned the cards out face down. Next to him, Chris shifted a little, laying his own cards out. The side of his hand brushed against JC's, the tip of a finger gliding across the line from JC's knuckle to the curve of his wrist. Fast, so fast that it was over before JC could exhale, the cards he was holding still falling into place.

An accident, he was sure, but he held his hands still, poised like everyone else's, talking of cards and luck and watching money he didn't have disappear. It happened again, Chris's knuckle sliding up and across the bone of JC's wrist as he took a card from the pile on the table, and he knew none of Chris's touches were accidental at all.

He lost more money but didn't care, a slow burning rush moving from his hand down his arm and swimming everywhere, watched cards turn under Chris's hands. He waited until he couldn't stand it anymore, until the friction of air entering his lungs was scraping his nerves raw, and then he murmured his excuses and rose.

But there was no fast and graceful exit for him. He had no carriage, and found himself trapped by the door, surrounded by a perfumed crowd of pink-clad dewy-eyed girls, their smiles giddy and their arms languid and slow as they pulled on wraps and allowed footmen to escort them outside and to their rides. He waited and smiled and wished he found them enchanting.

"I'll be passing through your part of town," he heard and turned. Chris, not smiling, tension so strong in him that even the remaining girls could sense it, drawing back from him and casting wide-eyed glances their way.

Too many eyes on him, and JC knew that Chris's intensity was all wrong, too much for everyone around him, was something that marked him as not belonging. It repelled JC, the wrongness of Chris, the way he stood almost inside one world and somehow managed to not fit into it at all, to seem somehow proud of it. It repelled him, but it also called to him. His throat was dry and the muscles of his arms and legs were shaking with tension that had nothing to do with avoidance.

"This way," he murmured, and he knew how to glide through a crowd, take languid steps down the stairs. Chris was behind him, then next to him. He didn't touch him, but still somehow guided him down to a carriage remarkable only for the fact that JC was climbing inside it, and Chris followed.

"Thank you," he said, and Chris smiled. JC could see the flash of his teeth in the light that reached them, and then the carriage door swung closed.

**

"You don't have green eyes," Chris said.

"What?"

"You don't have green eyes," he repeated, "so why wear--"and his hand moved through the space between them, grazing JC's leg.

"I--it was all I had. I--"

"Oh. Kirby's daughter had on green. I thought--"

"Pink."

"I meant her necklace. And bracelet."

"Emeralds," JC said on a sigh. "They were gorgeous."

"I could buy you emeralds," Chris said, and his voice was soft. "I could buy you emeralds and you could wear them just for me." He reached out and took JC's hand, slid his fingers down to his wrist, thumb tracing over the veins, and then he let go.

"No," JC said, although he wanted to say yes. _Yes._ "No."

"I wouldn't," Chris said and his voice was closer. "I wouldn't." Closer still, and he was in front of JC, not touching, carefully not touching, just his voice reaching out and his shadow all around.

"Lace," he said, and JC drew back, sinking into the seat, wishing for Justin's carriage for a moment, for the safe mocking cadence of Justin's voice.

"Lace?" he said, and knew that even if he could, he wouldn't leave.

"Silver lace," Chris said, and touched his hand again, cupping his wrist. "Here." And he took JC's other hand, holding him in place. "And here." JC thought of Kirby's daughter, the delicate lacework links of gold in the bracelet on her arm, and didn't try to pull away.

"And here," Chris said again, and his hands were gone.

"Where?" JC asked, breathless and waiting.

"Here," Chris said, and JC heard the smile in his voice. Chris's hands on his throat, thumbs pressing, just slightly, against his Adam's apple and then trailing down over the folds of cloth around his neck. "Right here. Would you let me?"

 _No_ , JC thought. And said "Yes."

He wasn't sure what to expect. Turned away from the bright lights of the world he knew, he was somewhere unfamiliar, and Chris's hands had slid back up his throat. It occurred to him that he didn't know anything about Chris other than his name and the touch of his hands. He'd been inside Chris's gilded home, where everything was for show, and there he'd only learned things about himself.

"Why--"? he asked, and Chris's hands fell away.

"Don't," Chris said, "don't ruin this," and JC wondered what Chris thought he was going to say.

"Just let me," he heard, a whisper of sound, and Chris's hands slid down his chest, past the small plain buttons of his coat, rested on his hips.

Oh, JC thought, when Chris's hands opened buttons, spread apart fabric. _Oh._

He couldn't pretend he hadn't felt Chris's careful touches before, couldn't pretend that what was happening was new, couldn't dress it up as something else, a complicated negotiation, him participating because of honor or wish to help a friend.

And that's why he feared it.

"Maybe I'll make you pay me," Chris said, and his voice was on JC's neck, the blunt edge of his teeth pressing into skin, cloth that was so carefully arranged earlier growing damp from the warm wet weight of Chris's mouth. "Would you?"

And JC shuddered, knew that Chris had sensed that he _would_ , that there was a side of himself that he'd always kept hidden and locked away. That now it wanted to be free.

_Yes._

And then he thought no, he didn't want it to be like this, not in the dark and almost vicious, not without anything to shield himself with, no story, no way to smooth things over and away with the rest of the world. He told himself that he was pulling away from Chris, that Chris's hands were holding him still and down.

But that wasn't how it was. He wasn't pulling away at all. He was pushing forward, arching up into Chris's hands and touches.

His eyes were getting used to the dark. Everything was still and quiet except for the slow steady roll of the carriage's wheels as they passed down the street. The two of them looked at each other closely, carefully.

"You don't have anything this time," Chris said and his voice was in JC's ear, quiet and sweet. "This is just for you. You chose this."

His hands moved, slid across JC's hips, across the skin of his abdomen, his fingers curving, holding. "This," Chris said, and his hand wrapped around JC's cock, gripping hard, and JC shuddered, "this is what you want. Like this."

He could see the outline of Chris's head dip and bend, could see the bright curve of the back of his neck. And then Chris's mouth was on him, sudden, hot, there. No pretense, no hesitant touches, no small careful gradual beginning. Just Chris's mouth all around him, firm strong pressure, and JC wanted to close his eyes and make it last for a very long time, wanted to pretend that it was all slow and careful.

But it wasn't.

His eyes stayed open and he wasn't careful at all, was trying to push deeper, farther, faster. Chris laughed, low and bitter, vibrations starting in his chest, the sound moving up into Chris's throat and across to JC, rippling waves in the warmth of Chris's mouth around him.

And JC wanted what he had, this fast quiet cruel quick moment. Wanted it as much as he had wanted the first time, and realized that then it wasn't the slowness and carefulness of it that had made it memorable. Now he realized that he wanted it all -- slow, fast, careful, quick. He wanted the moment just as he had it, fast and hard and Chris's hands holding his hips still for real now, not letting him move. He didn't want to change a thing about it.

It was Chris he wanted.

He did try to get away then, tried to slide back and up, tried to break free. But Chris only slid with him, rose up farther onto his knees, his hands sliding up to rest on JC's back. He wouldn't let go, and JC came, gasping, one hand on the ceiling, clawing for a way out.

JC came back to himself, still poised awkwardly, his spine aching. He tried to pull away but Chris's mouth was still on him. There was the long slow swipe of his tongue against JC's skin, and his smile pressed against the tip of JC's cock as JC finally slid free. He put his hands out awkwardly, fumbling them to rest against Chris's shoulders.

"I want to touch you," he said and he did, wanted to do to Chris what Chris had done to him. Needed to do it.

Chris pulled back, drifted to the opposite side of the carriage, his knees cracking as he shifted up and away. "No you don't," he said, and his voice was tired.

"Yes," JC said. "I do." He saw Chris blink at him, caught the tilt of his head as Chris turned his face away from him, caught it and stopped it by putting one hand on Chris's cheek, cupping the skin gently, and pressed his mouth against Chris's. "I will."

And he did. He was clumsy, unsure, his hands not as knowing as Chris's were. Chris didn't try to stop him but his body was tense, still, and he was breathing hard and fast. He made a noise when JC finally managed to open his pants, a short sharp sound, desire and alarm mixed together.

"Don't," Chris said, and pulled him up. His hands weren't careful or sure anymore. They were rough and clumsy, fumbling down JC's arms and grasping his wrists. "You don't want to do this. Not with me."

He pushed JC suddenly, pushed him hard, and JC fell back, rocking on his heels. The door was right behind him. He could have opened it and fallen free. He would have been jostled and bruised from the impact, but he would have healed.

"I want this," he said and leaned forward, put his hands on Chris's skin. "I want you."

Chris said something then, low and fast, and then he was leaning down over him, one hand under JC's chin. Chris kissed him hard, sucked on his bottom lip, muttered words into his mouth. JC thought he felt the words 'sure?' and 'want' and 'please' and 'you.'

And then Chris was pushing JC down, one hand on the back of his neck, and JC knew that was who Chris was; past the cards, past the money, past the empty enormous showcase of his home, past the careful façade he showed the world, the sharp smiles that never reach his eyes.

This was Chris, terrifying in how much he wanted, and JC wanted him.

Chris gasped and bucked when JC slid his mouth over Chris's cock, slid his hands up and over JC's face, across the line of his cheekbones and up into his hair. Pushed, pushed hard, and JC felt a burst of panic as Chris slid farther into his mouth, fast and deep. But past the fear was exhilaration. Chris wanted him, just him, and there was nothing beyond that. He held on and took more.

Chris cursed and twisted his hips, tried to pull away, but JC wouldn't let him, and Chris came. There was a sudden bitter hot rush in JC's mouth and he pulled away then, vision gone red and blurred and swallowed, gasping. Stared up at Chris, whose eyes were wide and frantic.

He moved back towards him, was suddenly afraid that Chris would do something abrupt and cutting, was instinctively aware that Chris didn't often let himself feel anything past the careful construction of self the world saw. Chris met him halfway, leaned forward into him. Holding him, JC thought, and let his body curve into Chris's, felt how well they matched, shoulder-to-shoulder, chest-to-chest, hip-to-hip. There was a bright burning flash behind his eyes and he felt like he'd stumbled into something that he would never want to leave.

And then Chris turned them both, pushed JC back against the door.

"Get out," Chris said, and his voice was vicious, sharp. "Get out." And then he let go, and JC thought he could still feel the pressure of Chris's body against his even as he knew he didn't, even as he half fell, half stumbled, out of the carriage and onto the steps outside his home. He wondered how long they had been there.

His footman was careful to avert his eyes and JC fixed his pants and coat frantically, clumsily. He looked back up at Chris, who had already slid back inside the carriage.

"Come inside," he said, and his voice broke a little on the last word. Chris's hand, pulling the door shut, froze in mid-air.

"Come inside," JC said again, and watched as Chris's hand shook, his sure fingers losing all their grace for a moment. Then the door closed, loudly, and the carriage rolled away.

He went inside. His housekeeper had left his calling cards, pressed and looking just like new, on the table in the front hallway. He picked one up and looked at it, ran a thumb over the print, over the careful deep impression of his name.

**

"What?"

"I said, I'm not coming with you."

Justin tapped his foot against the floor. It was a shame, JC thought, that Justin didn't live in his house. He looked better in it than JC ever did. The minute he'd walked through the door all the servants stood a little taller, and everything looked a little brighter.

"I need you to, " Justin said, and cleared his throat.

JC handed him one of his calling cards. He'd folded the left hand corner up, a quiet message of concern. "Here. Send this up when you get there."

Justin took the card. "You left early last night."

JC looked back at him steadily. "I did."

"I never thought you were reckless," Justin said softly. "Everyone saw you leave with him."

"I know."

Justin tapped his foot again. "You have your sister to think of."

JC smiled. "And you should go see yours."

Justin's foot stopped moving, and JC held his breath. "Well, then," Justin said, and turned for the door. When he stepped outside he paused and turned back. "Be careful," he said, low-voiced, and then he was gone.

JC walked to Chris's house. It wasn't that far, really. He also didn't have the money to hire a carriage.

It was odd, walking down the streets he knew instead of riding through them. He passed by houses he'd been in and out of for as long as he could remember, but they didn't look quite the same on foot, seemed taller, more imposing.

Two riders passed by him as he turned a corner, their horses taking up so much space that he was forced into the street. "Out of the way," one of them muttered and he looked up and recognized the face, one of Justin's friends. The man blinked at him, and then looked away, offered no apology or recognition. And that's how it began, JC realized. If he continued with what he was doing --whatever it was -- there would come a point where even Justin might turn his back on him.

He stopped for a moment and turned back to look at men he'd passed. He tried to remember their names and couldn't. Couldn't think past their titles, their faces sitting across from his at one event or another, interchangeable with a dozen others.

He put his hands in his pockets, one hand brushing across the card he'd put inside. He was standing in the street that bounded the edge of his world. He noted the clean wide expanse of it, saw people entering houses and leaving them, society spinning its oiled wheels, moving just fine without him. He kept walking.

Chris's house was as large and as imposing as he remembered, maybe even more so. It took him almost a block to walk from one end to the front entrance. The steps were larger and longer than his own. He hadn't noticed that before.

Chris's butler didn't blink when he opened the door, but JC could see surprise in his face, in the way he kept perfectly still. "Will you come in?" he asked, and only blinked when JC smiled and walked inside.

"Could you send this up to him?" JC asked, and handed over one of his cards. The right edge had folded over just a little. It had bent while it was in his coat. He didn't try to fix it.

The servant took the card and vanished. JC looked around the hallway, at the bright gilt world that Chris had created for himself, by himself, and waited for a reply.


	3. endgame

After a while his knees started to hurt and JC wondered if perhaps Chris would turn him away by not replying. By waiting to see if he left.

He put his hand in his pockets and stared at the walls.

But the butler did come back, mouthing polite words that JC couldn't hear over the beating of his own heart. Eventually he realized that he was supposed to do something because the butler's face was almost inscrutable and he was making bowing motions, his entire upper body gone stiff except for that forward swaying.

For a moment JC feared it was going to be dismissal after all. He wondered if this was how it had been for Chris and then he realized that the butler was trying to get him to take a step forward, to walk down Chris's hallway.

He realized he was supposed to go upstairs.

The butler put a hand on his arm when he took his first step forward. JC turned and stared at him. The man was clearly distressed, his face a mixture of curiosity and embarrassment and desire to look impassive.

"Your coat," the butler said faintly, and then added "Sir."

JC unbuttoned his overcoat and handed it to the butler. He walked down the hallway and then realized he didn't know where he was going. He turned back.

"Fourth door on the right," the butler said.

Ah, JC thought. He'd been there before. He knew that room.

**

Up the stairs, his feet tapping out a rhythm that reminded him of a nursery rhyme his sister used to sing when she was little. _One, two, three, four, someone's knocking at the door...._

He was at the top of the stairs. The hallway looked even wider and longer than he remembered. He walked down to the fourth door and pushed it open.

Chris was inside, waiting.

He was standing in the middle of the room, his hands fisted by his sides. He looked at JC when he walked in, and his gaze was direct, harsh.

All JC could think of to say was the obvious. "It--the room--looks different than I remember."

Because it did. He remembered Chris's bedroom as huge and empty, containing only a bed and a chair and Chris. Now he saw that he had been wrong, that the room was actually full of things...paintings, chests, armoires, nightstands flanking either side of the bed. How did he not notice these things before?

He looked at Chris, and knew why.

"It's the same," Chris said shortly. "You sent your card up. And--you walked here?"

JC nodded.

Chris took a step towards him and then stopped. "I don't believe you're here," he said slowly.

"I don't believe it either." But JC did, and he wondered why Chris didn't.

Chris took another step towards him, and JC waited.

Another step, and JC--JC wanted to fall to his knees, wanted Chris to grab him and push him and pull him and not let him have a choice. But he could already see that Chris knew that, and would make sure JC knew that he did.

Another step, and Chris was right next to him.

JC reached out and touched Chris's face, slid his fingers up Chris's cheekbones, let his thumbs rest under those dark, dark eyes. He liked that, Chris's eyes framed with his hands.

"Go on," Chris said, and his voice was high, breathy. It made something inside JC snap, forget restraint, and he bent forward, ran his mouth along the path his fingers traced and then down, along the edge of Chris's jaw. Chris's skin was warm, firm. He tasted like soap.

He pulled back and Chris's eyes had gone wide.

"I can't believe you're here," Chris said again and put his hands in JC's hair, reached up and tugged JC down towards him.

JC waited, but Chris didn't do more than that, just pulled him in close and looked at him. So close, but not close enough and JC strained forward. Chris's hands in his hair yanked again, pushed him back, and JC stumbled backwards, away from Chris. Away from the center of the room. Towards the bed.

He waited again, and was rewarded by Chris walking towards him. Every step he took JC answered with a backwards step of his own, a dance and retreat. Chris's eyes flashed bright and hard and hot at him and JC wanted--he wanted everything.

Finally, when JC reached the end of the bed, Chris stopped moving. He stared at JC for a moment and JC waited again, waited for Chris to push him down, push him so he fell. JC wanted him to. But Chris didn't -- he just stood there, watching him.

JC was afraid then. Afraid of the moment that JC knew would come, where Chris touched him, let JC touch him back, only to push him away. Afraid that whatever it was that Chris feared would win, would lead to another moment that ended with the two of them close together and far apart.

He took a step forward and reached out, closed the distance between them, touched Chris with both hands, one on either shoulder. He didn't pull Chris in -- he couldn't, he couldn't let himself admit that much --but he leaned in instead. Leaned in and kissed him.

**

For a moment Chris didn't move and JC felt the exquisite pressure of Chris's mouth under his, there and waiting for him. Something JC had to bring to life. It inspired him. He let his tongue slide out, traced the seam of Chris's lips.

Chris kissed him back. Suddenly, fiercely, his mouth opening and taking over, his tongue pushing against JC's, his teeth a firm sharp hot weight on JC's lower lip and JC thought _yes_ , sucked Chris's tongue into his mouth.

And then it was like it had been every other time, both of them forgetting everything and just reacting to each other. JC pushing against Chris, Chris pushing back, the two of them breathing together.

Chris's hands were between them, his fingers sliding up JC's body, making JC arch and lean forward. There was a loud popping noise, a snap that filled the air between them and JC pulled back, panting, his mouth feeling swollen and bruised and perfect.

Chris was unbuttoning his coat. Unbuttoning it by pulling at the buttons, his hands--those clever skillful hands--yanking. Too frantic for finesse and now JC's coat was open and Chris had started on his shirt. He could feel the hot brush of Chris's fingers as they slid through the buttonholes and he was panting, could hear his own breath echo across the expanse of the room. He put his own hands, clumsily, slowly, to Chris's shirt.

"Stop," Chris said, and pushed his hands away, returned to his clothes.

JC moved then, stepping back, his knees hitting the edge of the bed. "Why?" he said, and Chris didn't reply, just pushed his shirt open and ran a hand down his chest, hard and slow, his fingers pressing, drawing a line from JC's collarbone to his navel.

"God," Chris said, and his voice was sharp, slurred.

JC tossed his head back and Chris repeated the motion. JC knew why Chris didn't want to be touched. Chris's hands were rough and almost violent and he was breathing fast and hard.

Chris was afraid he'd come undone if JC touched him.

**

JC reached out then, pushed past Chris's shirt, didn't care if his own hands were frantic or fumbling, just cared that they would be touching skin. There was resistance under his fingers and he pushed, shoving his fingers outward. There was a loud noise, another grating snap, and then his hands were free, rushing outward from the force of his efforts. He pulled them back and planted them on Chris's skin.

Chris's hand, tracing down the line of his chest, twisted, his fingernail sliding into JC's skin, sharp and painful and so real that JC felt his hips thrust forward and against Chris's, frantic, fast, and his eyes fluttered shut, his vision filled with red and gold, bright swirling stars of pain and want crashing together.

Chris's hands moved away, shoved at JC's own. JC opened his eyes, saw Chris staring at him, at his chest, his face stunned.

He looked down at his chest. There was a red line, faint, but there, marking where Chris touched him. At the end of it, his skin was white, all the blood pooled to the area where Chris's fingernails had left a mark.

"Mine," Chris said and his voice was so guttural that JC knew the words instinctively more than he heard them, could see Chris's possession in the glow that lay in his eyes, in the way his body swayed towards JC's.

_Yours_ , he thought, and nodded. Chris reached out then, hooked his hand into the top of JC's pants, wrapping around the waistband, and pulled.

**

He didn't resist because he didn't want to, he wanted Chris to posses him, and the force of Chris's effort pulled him forward so fast that Chris's head bumped into him, his jaw hitting JC's shoulder. Hard, so hard that he could feel the jolt everywhere.

Chris reared back, his face white-red, shocked; like he'd realized that he'd gone too far and wanted out, away.

JC wasn't going to let him go. He leaned forward and licked Chris's jaw, ran his tongue along it, soothing. Tasting.

Chris's eyes were bright and glittering when JC pulled away. He pushed JC, pushed him down onto the bed, and JC fell willingly.

After that it was a blur, so fast, nothing JC could string together into memory, just fragments that grabbed him and shook him.

Chris's hands opening his pants, Chris's hands on him. Chris leaning over him, Chris touching him till all JC could think of and say was " _please_."

Chris's mouth on his, Chris's breath filling him, his mouth and eyes and skin and everywhere full of Chris's taste, his touches.

When he came, he looked outward and around frantically, tried to find an anchor for himself that didn't involve Chris. He couldn't find one.

It was only afterwards, Chris kneeling between his thighs, his eyes shining bright and hot into JC's, that JC found his anchor.

His card, lying on Chris's nightstand. Placed there carefully, lying in the center, the side with JC's name facing up. The folded edge still in place, a message for anyone to read.

**

At first he wasn't sure where he was, because his bedroom was never this warm. Ever. And then JC remembered.

He opened his eyes slowly. There was an ocean of bed linens around him; sheet, blankets, and some sort of soft nubby spread over it all, so thick that JC couldn't feel his fingers rub together when it slid around his hands. JC thought the spread was made out of silk but he hadn't asked about it. He could never afford anything like it anyway. He shoved an arm out, searching, and only found lingering pockets of warmth.

Chris wasn't in bed anymore. JC lifted himself up on his elbows.

Chris was putting on his pants. "You're awake," he said flatly, and JC nodded, let his elbows slide back down, his arms sinking into the softness all around him. He closed his eyes. He kept them closed until he couldn't hear Chris moving around anymore.

When he opened his eyes Chris was standing by the bed, looking down at him. He was dressed.

"We've--you've been here for two days," he said.

"Have I?"

JC hadn't noticed. He looked over at the door. His clothes were still there, in a heap on the floor, a curling trail leading into the room. He smiled.

"I have to go out," Chris said.

"Oh," JC said, and felt his smile fade. He looked towards the windows. It was dark outside. He felt strangely separated from everything, as if he could see himself, a pale dot in the middle of a sea, waves closing over his head as he stared up at the sky.

When he looked back, Chris was gone. JC looked at the door for a moment, then slid back down into the bed. He pushed his feet into the mattress, felt it roll and shape itself to him, and closed his eyes again.

**

Chris came back when the sun was bright and strong in the sky, shining in through the windows and creating little spots of burning warmth on the bed. JC was sitting up and staring at one of them, his fingers almost but not quite touching it. His clothes were still on the floor.

"You stayed," Chris said flatly.

JC nodded.

Chris walked over to the bed.

"You could have left," he said, and started to unbutton his coat.

"I didn't want to," JC replied, and watched Chris's hands pause and then reach for him, sudden desperate movement.

He was only a little afraid, and once Chris's hands touched him he wasn't afraid at all.

**

Justin's first message arrived a few days later. JC almost didn't notice it. It was mixed in with the rest of his mail, Justin's card, his name written on it in Justin's sprawled handwriting. He stared at it for a moment before he even recognized Justin's seal, his title.

He had a hard time recognizing anything. His whole life had taken on a peculiar split quality, neatly divided into two segments that had nothing in common. He spent his days at Chris's, caught up in a blur of tangles. Bodies, emotions, actions--nothing he wanted to even attempt to sort through. At night, he went home, got dressed, went out.

He went to places like the Russell's, intense gatherings where the only entertainment was conversation. He nodded along with the discussions and occasionally found he even understood them. He went to balls, small ones, quiet ones, ones where gambling wasn't allowed. He danced with pale girls who blushed and stammered when he greeted them, and he danced with bolder ones who met his eyes and angled the curves of their bare shoulders in front of his gaze.

He would look down at his hands, neatly holding onto the girls' trim waists, his feet keeping the proper distance between them, and his sight would fill with other images. Chris, his head bent, kneeling over him, his mouth hovering right above JC's own. Himself, body arched up and around Chris, the line of their joined limbs beautiful, so beautiful.

It made him feel rich and strange to have those thoughts, to be where he was, standing in his own glittering world, with the memory of his unmade and undone self hovering around him.

He looked at Justin's card for a moment. He watched himself fold it in half and then in half again, until Justin's name wasn't visible.

"Are you going out, sir?" his butler asked when JC walked to the door. "It'll be light soon. Perhaps you'd like to stay here, receive some callers later?"

"No," JC said. "Thank you."

He went back to Chris's. Chris was there when he arrived, waiting. JC was going to ask him where he'd been, but forgot at the first touch of Chris's hands on his skin.

**

The shouting woke him.

JC knew Chris had gotten up before him; he almost always did. JC got up and put on his clothes as best he could--Chris managed just fine without a valet, but JC always felt half-dressed at Chris's, wearing just a shirt and a pair of pants, no necklcoth, no coat. He rather liked the feeling, even if it did make him the slightest bit disoriented.

Chris's whole house made him feel that way. He would forget about it sometimes, with his eyes closed and Chris's hands on him, but at some point Chris always moved his hands away and JC had to open his eyes.

He checked to make sure he'd buttoned his shirt properly and went out into the hallway. It swung around him mockingly, as he walked, the gilt walls and ornate scrollwork all seeming to coil and double back on themselves.

He'd asked Chris about it once--just once--said, "Why do you have everything like this?" Chris stared at him for a moment and then said, "So I won't ever forget who I am."

JC walked downstairs. The marble of the stairs was cold under his feet.

"You've ruined me!" A voice rising to an angry fevered pitch, the 'me' an anguished shout.

"I didn't ruin you." Chris. "No one forced you to play. No one forced you to bet."

"You've forced me to pay! All of it! At once! You don't care anything for honor or decency or--"

"I care that I'm trying to count. And you keep interrupting me. I'm almost finished, and I would hate to start over." Chris's voice was sharp, curt.

"Counting *my* money!" the voice snarled and JC recognized the speaker. Sanders.

JC had gone to school with him, served as a groomsman at his wedding. Sanders had gotten drunk with him after Justin had refused JC's offer for his sister.

"Ah well," he'd said as the two of them sat in JC's study, passing a bottle of brandy back and forth, "I always thought she was a bit managing anyway. Shrewish women--who need 'em?"

"Not me," JC had muttered, and wiped his eyes with furious shaking hands.

"That's the spirit," Sanders had said. "You've got the whole world at your feet! We'll give 'em hell!"

"My money now," Chris said, and JC's thoughts scattered. "And I wish to count it."

"Fine," Sanders replied, his voice rising again. "Count it! I hope you choke on it! I'd call you out but--you wouldn't answer, would you?"

"Still counting," Chris said. "And no, I wouldn't."

"No honor!" Sanders said, "None!"

JC heard Chris's study doors crash open. The voices got louder, closer.

"Because I won't let you shoot me in the head?"

"You're nothing," Sanders said, his voice shaking. "You've got money and this god-awful monstrosity and you're still nothing. You'll always be nothing."

"I'll have someone show you out," Chris said, and Sanders was suddenly walking past JC, long angry strides, his face mottled red and white, his features pinched. He looked up and saw JC.

His eyes widened a bit, raking JC from his head to his feet. JC was suddenly horribly conscious of his bare feet, of his uncombed hair. Of everything.

"Oh JC," Sanders said, and his eyes were full of pity. "This is where you've been? With him?"

He touched JC's arm. His hand was hot and damp, even through the fabric of JC's shirt. "He's ruined me. I've got nothing left. And my sisters--JC, my sisters!"

He started to draw back but Sanders's hand clamped down tighter. "You saw what he did to Timberlake. And his sister--she's with child now. He told us all last night--god, you should have seen him! I thought he was going to weep. A Timberlake, giving birth to a Cit's child! You think I want that for my sisters? Do you?"

"Sir," JC looked up and saw the butlter had arrived, two footmen by his side. He realized they were speaking to Sanders. Their "Sir" was almost respectful. One of the footmen reached for him

"I'm leaving," Sanders said, and pulled his hand away from JC, stared at the footmen until they backed away, blushing. He stalked towards the door and they followed, the butler sending an apologetic glance Chris's way.

JC waited until they were gone. He could still hear Sanders, sobbing outside on the steps, the footmen trying to urge him to his carriage.

He looked over at Chris. Chris was watching him steadily.

"You ruined him?"

"I did."

JC looked down, watched his hand flex on the stair railing. He looked back at Chris again. Chris was looking in the mirror that hung on the wall. It was an enormous mirror, the finest one JC had ever seen, its surface smooth and polished. The edges were gilded, golden animals chasing each other up and around the sides. Chris's face was empty, his expression as smooth as the mirror's surface.

"Are you sorry?"

"No," Chris said quietly. He blinked and JC saw a million emotions cross his eyes; anger, self-loathing, pride, fear, shame. JC swallowed hard and looked away.

His hand was still gripping the stair railing tightly, and he forced himself to release it, to let his hand fall free, to stand on his own. "Take me upstairs," he finally said.

Chris turned and looked at him. His eyes blazed, dark and hot and surprised. "Are you sure?" he said slowly.

"Yes."

Chris took him upstairs. They made it as far as the hallway. JC felt the gilt edges of the wall digging into his skin, but he didn't say anything. After a while he didn't even notice. Chris ran a hand over the marks, later, but didn't say he was sorry.

JC didn't think he would.

**

JC ignored Justin's second letter. It was given to him by Lady Russell herself. She pulled him aside when he entered her house one night and said, "Chasez! I had a visit from Timberlake this morning--you know, I think he gets more handsome every day. He asked me to pass this along to you, said that you had forgotten all your old friends in your attempts to begin a political career. I hope that isn't true, dear."

JC smiled at her. "I'm afraid my political ambitions are all tied to my desire to see you."

Lady Russell tapped him on the arm with her fan. "That was quite well done. You know, I have a daughter coming out next year."

"Really," JC said, and slid Justin's letter into his pocket. "Is she as beautiful as you are?"

"More," Lady Russell said, and then laughed. "It's true, although you and I both know that would have been my answer regardless. Walk me inside, please."

JC took her arm and strolled into the gathering. He started to steer her towards her usual group--a clump of dignitaries in the corner, no doubt arguing furiously over some obscure policy issue--but she shook her head and said "Come sit with me for a moment."

"I'd be honored."

Lady Russell shook her head as she sat down, smiling at him as he sat next to her. "You are charming, aren't you? Don't think I don't appreciate it. Now. My daughter. My husband says I shouldn't play matchmaker, you know. But I think you would do very well for her. I have a portrait."

She reached up and opened the locket she was wearing, held it out towards him. Inside was a picture of a girl, a younger version of Lady Russell with clear laughing eyes.

"She's beautiful," he said, and meant it.

"Her settlement is small," Lady Russell said, closing the locket. "Two properties and eight thousand a year." She touched his hand. "But she speaks of you. You don't remember, of course, but you met her once. You came to our home one winter with your family."

"Of course," he said, but couldn't really remember at all.

"Keep it in mind," Lady Russell said softly. "That's all I'm saying. I know you are--" she paused "attached to someone now." She paused and looked at JC, waited until he knew that she knew everything. "You're young," she continued, "and the world is all possibility. But there's always the future." She opened her fan once more, rose from her seat. "Don't throw it away because you can't bear to think about tomorrow."

JC nodded and was glad she didn't require further reply. He watched Lady Russell cross over to her husband, noticed the way she stood next to him, linking her arm through his. He looked at the empty space next to him and thought of how it would look filled, imagined a girl with laughing eyes sparkling up at him by his side. It could be his future. It wasn't an unattractive one.

On his way back to Chris's, the night sky fading into the pale haze of dawn, he pulled the letter out and looked at it. The carriage rolled to a stop and JC could see a light on in his--Chris's--bedroom.

He left the letter in the carriage.

**

It was actually almost cold in Chris's bedroom, JC thought as he padded across the floor. The sun was up, but the windows were still coated with ice, the bedroom lit with watery gray-yellow light. He went and stood by the fireplace, letting the heat warm his back until it felt like it might melt. Then he went and got the tray that stood in the corner and pulled it across the floor a little, till it was closer to the fire.

"I could light a candle," Chris said sleepily.

"I can see."

JC lit the burner under the kettle and got the tea out, measured it into the cups. He got a little on his hand and licked the edge of it carefully, tasted the bitter sharp edge of the leaves on his tongue.

The first few times, Chris had rung for someone in the morning, and JC had liked it, a servant coming in and carefully keeping her gaze focused on the tray in front of her, her hands deferential and sure as she passed them cups of tea. He thought it made everything feel more real.

And then he noticed that Chris always kept the covers carefully pulled tight up and around him, and that his hands were white-knuckled, that he could never bring himself to look anywhere other than a spot that seemed to float somewhere above his head and over to one side.

After that, JC just made tea himself, made the butler drag up a kettle and a heater and a stand one night after Chris left, directing him to set it up in the corner.

"Should I just bring up a service?" the butler asked quietly after JC had sent him back down to the kitchen again because he'd forgotten that sometimes Chris liked lemon and that he didn't have any of those or a knife to cut them with.

"A what?"

"A service," the butler said slowly. "It's a set for serving, and it's portable. It has everything you'll need. Sir."

JC nodded, felt his face heat.

The kettle hissed and JC took it off the burner. He blew it out and poured, then cut his hand slicing the lemon and wished he'd left the burner on. He couldn't see very well.

"Here," he said, walking back to the bed and handing Chris his cup. He took his own and frowned down at it. He was pretty sure he'd bled into his tea.

"Thank you," Chris said quietly. He took JC's cup out of his hands and handed him the one he was holding.

**

JC couldn't ignore Justin's third letter.

He was sitting in the front parlor of Chris's house, eating cross buns and watching Chris talk to himself as he read the paper.

"Idiots," Chris muttered as he turned a page. JC smiled and went back to picking the raisins out of the roll in front of him.

"You know," Chris said. "I could have those made without them."

"I don't mind," JC said, and pushed the pile of raisins over towards Chris.

"Mmmph," Chris said. He was putting a handful of raisins in his mouth.

"I got something in the mail," he said once he'd swallowed. He reached out and grabbed an envelope from the top of the stack of mail he'd put on the edge of the table, pushed it across to JC.

The letter was sealed, Justin's seal burned carefully across the edges of folded paper, JC's name written below.

"Looks important," Chris said. He went back to reading the paper.

JC opened the letter. Justin had written one sentence. _Call at one today._

"I'm going to have to go out," he said.

"Are you coming back?" Chris said. His voice was muffled by the paper.

JC looked down at his hands. He had icing on both of his index fingers. "I--" he said slowly.

Chris put his paper down. He got up and walked over to JC, bent down and kissed him.

A few minutes later, JC tried to speak. He put one hand on Chris's chest and arched back, gasped and tried to find his voice. Chris's hands pushed into his hips harder, his thumbs pressing into bone.

"Don't," Chris said. "Please don't start lying now."

**

Justin usually received callers in what he always called 'the morning room.' It was painted blue, to match Justin's eyes, and the walls were lined with portraits of his ancestors. JC started towards the room when he walked inside, but the butler directed him down the hall towards Justin's study instead.

"This must be serious," he said when he walked in, and smiled.

"No one's heard from you in days."

JC felt his smile fade. "That's not true. I--"

"You're living with him."

"I'm still at home--"

"You're living with him. Five minutes a day to ignore your mail and get dressed by your incompetent valet doesn't count as living at home. Do you want some chocolate?"

JC nodded and sat down. Justin gestured towards the servant standing in the corner of the room. JC watched as the servant ground the chocolate, added the hot water and milk, and then stirred the mixture together vigorously. JC took the cup that was handed to him.

"That will be all," Justin said to the servant, and waited until he left the room before speaking again.

"You've been ignoring my messages."

"I have."

Justin smiled. "How long do you think you can go on like this?"

JC took a sip of chocolate. It was hot. The inside of his mouth ached and he swallowed, heat burning down his throat, making his breath catch. He concentrated on keeping his cup steady. "I hadn't thought about it."

"Liar."

"Why does it matter?"

Justin took a deep breath. "Because you--JC, for god's sake. It's one thing for pleasure. It might have even added to your admittedly dull reputation, you taking on a lover like Kirkpatrick. But you---JC, I know you." He narrowed his eyes. "You aren't planning on giving him up, are you?"

JC took another sip of his chocolate. "It's not your fault," he said.

"What?"

JC took a deep breath. "He called on me once. I sent him away but I wanted to--- it was before you asked me to go see him."

Justin put his cup down on his desk. His movements were tight and controlled, furious. "I'm trying to help you," he said slowly.

"I know you are-- I was just trying to say that--"

"You wouldn't be seen by anyone if it wasn't for me. Hell, do you know the things people are saying? Do you? My god, even the Russells--yes, even those thinkers you like to pretend you're one of --how long do you think they'll tolerate it? One can only be amusing for so long JC. Then you're....you're just pathetic."

"Fine."

"Why?" Justin said, and his voice was sharp with exasperation. "I just want to know why. Why can't you just let him go?"

"I lo--"

"Oh JC, for god's sake--don't say--"

"I love him."

"Then you're a fool," Justin snapped. "Love? What is that? And how would you know? God, you're reckless and stupid--"

"Justin--"

"He's going to destroy you."

JC put his cup down. "I'm not--I'm happy, Justin."

"Fine," Justin said, and rose. "I don't know why I even try. I'll have someone show you out."

"I'm sorry," JC said as he left.

"No," Justin said. "You aren't." He sighed and put a hand on JC's arm. "But I'm afraid you will be."

**

Chris was in his study. He looked up when the door opened, and his eyes widened when he saw JC.

"I--you," he said, and stood up.

JC closed the door and took off his coat and gloves, throwing them onto a chair.

"It's cold out," he said. "I took a hack. I charged it to you--I promise I'll pay--" And then, "Oh--," as Chris took him into his arms and kissed him.

"You taste like chocolate," Chris said after a while. He ran his mouth over the curve of JC's neck, nipping the skin at the hollow of his throat, opening his shirt.

"mmmm," JC said, and titled his head back. "I had some at Justin's."

Chris paused, lifting his mouth away from JC's collarbone. "So you did go to see him."

"I did," JC said, and ran his hands across Chris's back.

"And you still came back here?" The muscles under JC's hand were tense, but Chris's voice was languid, light.

"Yes."

Chris shoved at him suddenly, pushing back and away. "For how long?"

"What?"

"For how long? You come here, sleep in my bed, look at me and smile, don't ever ask me anything, just open your arms. You think you're the first person to do that?"

"I--" JC said, and looked at Chris. He hadn't thought about it before, but he could see the answer in Chris's eyes.

"I know I'm not."

"And?" Chris said.

"And what?"

For a moment JC thought Chris might hit him. He saw Chris's hands knot into fists, saw bright hot emotion flash across his face. He finally said, "How long until you're ready to leave?"

"I love you," JC said. "Do you want me to go?"

Chris's face tightened and he inhaled sharply, grabbed JC and pushed him back against the closed door.

"You're a fool," he said sharply, pulling apart JC's shirt and jacket, "and you don't know anything." He ran a hand down JC's chest and then opened his pants, slid down onto his knees.

"Tell me again," he said quietly, and his voice was tight, thick.

"I love you," JC said and then gasped, pushed his hips forward into Chris's waiting hands.

He waited, but Chris never said anything in reply.

**

That night Chris left like he always did. JC sat and looked at his hands for a long time. He could probably continue this way for as long as he wanted. This neat split, this tidy nothing. Chris in his world, JC floating through what was left of his.

He got up and got dressed.

He went out.

**

He ran into Justin outside, saw the bright gilt of his head walking towards him the minute he stepped out of the carriage and told the driver to put the charge on his account. The driver spit, narrowly missing his feet. JC didn't blame him. He owed just about every hack in the city money.

"You sir," Justin called out to the driver as he walked over to JC, "are insolent. Oh, now you straighten up! Too late. " He tossed a coin up. "There, that's more than you deserve."

"Indeed, sir," the driver said, "thank you."

"Rabble," Justin muttered, and turned towards JC. "So here you are. Can't say I'm surprised."

"I know," JC said as they walked inside. "I--"

Justin shook his head. "Don't. It's all right. "

**

The hell was crowded and noisy and the walls, to JC, looked insubstantial and shimmering. He sat down and, after a while, the bright spinning edges that gilded everything around him began to fade. He noticed a sharp pinching pain in his head. He looked around, trying to still the building burn behind his eyes.

Chris was at the table next to his. There was a pile of notes and coins on the table in front of him, and he said something to the people around him that made everyone stiffen a little before they laughed politely.

He looked tired, JC thought, and watched the smile on Chris's face. He realized that Chris was bored, could tell from his eyes, which were alert and restless, jumping from one person to another. He watched Chris take a hand, fingers moving surely and rapidly.

Chris looked up then. His eyes met JC's and they came to life. His hands faltered for a moment, his cards dipping and swaying, and then they fell back into their regular rhythm.

JC smiled at him. He couldn't help it, didn't want to help it. He wanted Chris to see how he felt, wanted to have Chris look back at him. He knew his smile wasn't polite or even kind, but he knew it was real, knew it showed everything Chris made him feel.

Chris's eyes filled with an answering intensity, so strong that JC hoped--thought Chris might smile back or even rise and walk over towards him, incline his head down towards JC's, say his name and meet his eyes.

And then Chris turned away.

JC sat there, staring at him, knowing he shouldn't and still waiting-hoping-wanting Chris's gaze to swing back to him.

There was sharp stinging pain on his hand, right above his wrist. He looked down at his hand. Justin had put one of his hands on top of his, and his fingernail was pressing hard into the flesh of JC's hand.

Everyone was watching him. Some covertly, thumbing through their cards while glancing up at him. Some overtly, smirks or looks of avid semi-horror in their eyes. He felt a flush creep across his face.

"I've lost again," Justin said, lifting his hand away from JC's arm and tossing his cards on the table. "Am I going to have to call you out, Walters? Or will you refrain from cheating during the next hand?"

A gasp, and everyone's gaze shifted, switched to Walters, who blustered and stammered. Walters was young and new enough not to know that Justin always said things like that when he was angry and losing money.

"I'm leaving," JC told Justin as Walters continued to stammer, his voice rising and cracking as he declared his honor. He said it loudly, hoping Chris would hear. Chris didn't look up.

Justin was smiling and nodding at something the person beside him was saying, but he turned when JC spoke. His eyes, when they met JC's, were clear and a little sad.

"Good," he said.

**

It started to rain on his way home. JC laughed and opened the window, heard the driver sitting above him curse and mumble to himself about bad luck and crazy noblemen. He closed his eyes and let the rain fall on his face, made himself recall memories he wanted to forget.

At home, he contemplated going into his study and drinking but changed his mind when he opened the door. His study was cold and drafty and miserable and so was he.

He went to his bedroom instead, dismissed his valet and then called him back, made him drag the copper tub out of the dressing room and then scurry off to have it filled.

"It's quite cold in here," he told the housekeeper as she bustled back and forth, directing sleepy housemaids to pour water in the tub and others to go and heat towels.

"Would you like me to order more fires lit?" she asked. She wiped her face with the back of her hand. Some of her hair had fallen free from her cap; white stringy strands of it were wrapped around the edges of her face. If his mother were still alive she would have been younger than his housekeeper. And he'd thought his mother was old when she'd died.

"No," he said, "You should just go back to bed," and watched the last bucket of water being poured into the tub.

The servants left and he sank into the tub, listened to water slosh over the side and trickle into the carpet below. His entire body suddenly ached and he closed his eyes, dipped his head underwater. He waited until his lungs burned before he surfaced.

Chris was there when he opened his eyes.

"Your butler let me in," he said. His mouth was curved into a bitter smile. "He didn't ask for my card."

JC pushed his hair off his face. His arms, when he lifted them up, splashed more water onto the floor.

"I don't understand," Chris said. "What do you want from me?"

"Nothing," JC said. He stood up and got out of the tub, walked over to Chris. "Everything."

Chris started to back away but didn't, instead grabbed JC's arms and held him still, right in front of him.

"Why?" he asked quietly. "Why me?"

"I don't know."

He let go of JC's arms and the two of them stood there for a moment, looking at each other.

"They're just words," Chris finally said, and his voice was soft, pained.

"I know," JC said, and touched him then, wrapped his arms around him; felt the warm wet weight of his skin soaking through Chris's clothes, binding them together.

In bed, Chris was next to him, under him, over him, around him. JC ran his hands down Chris's sides, and then up, over and down his back.

Chris was silent under him, and JC told himself to wait.

He touched Chris again and again, touched him until he was so hard he was shaking, little black and yellow spots flitting in front of his eyes. Still he waited.

He bit Chris's shoulders, licked down his spine, snaked his hands over and around Chris's body, moved out of the way of Chris's hands.

He waited until Chris was arching up under him, pressing back towards him, his hands fisted in the blankets around them.

"Jesus, JC," Chris said, and his voice was a cracked whisper. " _please_."

JC stopped waiting.


End file.
